


Cakes And Ale

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fairy cakes, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Pining, really very fluffy, sherlock loves bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 03:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John goes drinking with Lestrade and Sherlock brings home fairy cakes. Romance occurs.





	Cakes And Ale

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it seemed right to begin this week and end this series with a big dose of sweetness. Hopefully not over the top...
> 
> I have enjoyed writing this series and sharing it, so I hope you all have enjoyed it as well.
> 
> Now I am going to devote myself to a long AU, so will be absent for a while. Hope you all will look forward to that new piece. I do, however, reserve the right to pop in with a short piece, if something occurs in the meantime. Thanks for the kudos and comments on this series.

Maybe the third time would be the charm. Isn’t that what they always said? John could only hope that would be the case in this instance.

Lestrade took a swallow of his lager and relaxed into the padded seat of the banquette. “You know, John,” he said seriously, “it really is for the best. I’m better off without her. Let the---” He paused.

“The estate agent,” John supplied helpfully. He liked being helpful to his friends.

Lestrade nodded vigorously. “Yeah, right. Let the bloody estate agent have her. I’m done. Fini. This is me moving on.”

He certainly sounded determined. But since he had also said those exact same words after the dental hygienist and then the prep school football coach, John was unsure if he really meant it this time either. Still, when a good mate asks you to come out to the pub and celebrate his freedom, it seemed churlish not to go. Even if it was for the third time. So, John just nodded in what he hoped was a supportive way, drank his ale and surveyed the other Thursday night pub patrons.

He sighed, wishing that Sherlock had accepted the invitation that John optimistically scribbled down before leaving 221B. Not that the man would have been much of a comfort to Lestrade, of course, but it would have been entertaining to listen to his snarky comments. Bit hard on Lestrade, though. Truthfully, John was not really listening anymore as the inspector rambled on; he’d heard it all before. Instead, he went back to looking around the pub. “I think that blonde over there is watching you,” he said to Lestrade, who straightened and smoothed his hair.

“Which one?”

John nodded towards the woman in question. She was wearing a bright pink low-cut top over blue jeans that seemed to be painted on. When she noticed that Lestrade was looking at her, she smiled and then poked the brunette standing next to her at the bar. A moment later, they both picked up their drinks and strolled over. 

“Room for two more?” the blonde said.

Lestrade seemed quite chuffed and slid towards the middle of the banquette. The blonde sat next to him and the brunette scooted in next to John. Toni and Brenda, it seemed. Rather surprisingly to John, who admitted to being a bit old-fashioned in his thinking about some things, they both taught at a primary school. A fresh round of drinks seemed in order, so John soon found himself with another ale sitting on the table in front of him.

He took a big gulp. Brenda was pressing him to talk about his life, his work, his…well, frankly, he didn’t really know. 

And he realised abruptly that he didn’t really care.

A crowded and pretty loud pub was probably not the ideal venue for a man to do a bit of self-reflection, but John Watson had been to war and he had been a doctor making snap decisions in frenetic surgical suites, so a bit of noise did not bother him unduly.

Someone must have ordered more drinks, because a fresh glass of ale had appeared much too quickly in front of him. He took a couple of sips just to lubricate the thought process, nodded pleasantly at whatever Brenda was saying and began to think about his life.

There had been a time when he would have already had Brenda halfway to bed by now, his only thoughts about wanting to get off with a willing female. [And to be honest---which self-reflection always should be---on more than one occasion, a willing male. Which did not make him gay, thank you very much. It made him…flexible.]

So why was he now not even interested in trying?

More ale slid easily down his throat.

_Be honest, John Hamish,_ said the voice of his Gram. Who had not been a woman he could lie to, because she always knew. Not unlike someone else. He who must not be named. John snickered, which somehow was seen by Brenda as encouragement, because she scooted a little closer. He got a good whiff of her perfume. Which was very nice, he acknowledged to himself. Honestly.

But he still wished that he was back at the Baker Street flat. Which. when he had left it just over an hour ago, had definitely not smelled of lavender; instead, the sitting room had reeked of something like rotting eggs mingled with dirty jock straps from whatever ungodly experiment Sherlock had been engrossed in. Engrossed at least until the moment he jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat and ran out, shouting over his shoulder, “Back soon, John!” As an explanation of what was going on, that was somewhat lacking in detail.

Yes, it was insane to want to be there instead of here with his friend Lestrade and a nice-smelling, very willing woman.

_Be honest, John Hamish._

He checked his phone, but there was still no text summoning him to come solve a crime or send a text or make a cup of tea.

He wanted to finish this last ale, which was really very nice, and then he would decide what to do.

*

Sherlock did not bother with the kettle, because his tea was never as good as that John made. It was not even as good as what Hudders provided, which was fine, but still not up to John’s standard. So, instead, he just fetched a bottle of water and sat down on the sofa. The subtle violet of the bakery box was pleasing, so he paused to just look at it for a moment, before finally lifting the lid.

A dozen fairy cakes were inside, the gift of a grateful shop owner for whom Sherlock had uncovered which employee was selling recipes to a rival.

He’d been delighted by the gift and on the taxi ride home planned how to present the treats to John, who had a sweet tooth to rival his own. He imagined a nice pot of Earl Grey and them both on the sofa eating fairy cakes together. In his plan, they would laugh a lot and John would tease him about a patch of icing on his face. Then John would reach out a finger and carefully [dare he think tenderly?] wipe away the icing.

Sherlock was still debating whether John would lick the sweet topping off his finger himself or hold it out for Sherlock to do so [either would suit and either could lead in the direction he wanted things to go] when he walked in to the flat and found not his flat-mate, but just a scribbled note.

_Gone to the pub w/Lestrade. Join us, why don’t you?_

Sherlock was reminded of the Xmas when he was seven and expecting to receive the fancy Swiss microscope about which he had been dreaming since July. But, on the day, when he ripped open the box all he found inside was My First Microscope, something obviously intended for idiots.

For the next twenty minutes, he just sat there, still holding the violet box of cakes in his lap. Finally, though, he fetched the water and finally lifted the lid to reveal a dozen perfect little cakes.

Strawberry and Cream  
Crème de Menthe  
Dark Chocolate  
Vanilla  
Lemon Zest  
Grenadine  
Raspberry  
White Chocolate  
Mocha  
Rum Butter

The last two were his favourites. One had a colourful butterfly on top and the other, the absolute best of all, was honey-flavoured and had a little bee on top.

He wondered which cake John would have chosen first. The raspberry, he decided, and set that one aside.

He was halfway through the sorting when the door opened and John walked in. Sherlock spared him a glance. One drink too many. Tipsy, then, but not drunk. Home much earlier than expected.

“Sherlock,” John said. 

“John,” seemed the only logical reply.

“You have fairy cakes.” 

Inebriated Watson was always a bit obvious, but because it was him, Sherlock didn’t mind. “I have a dozen fairy cakes. Gift from a grateful client.”

John tried to sit on the sofa as well, but it became more of a fall into the cushions. “Not drunk,” he said. 

“Just short of,” Sherlock pointed out.

John conceded that with a shrug.

“You’re back early.”

“I missed you,” John said and then immediately he looked startled at his own words. To cover, apparently, he gestured towards the cakes. “Why are they lined up like that? Going to battle it out?”

Sherlock sighed and wished he had the nerve to tousle John’s too-tidy hair. “I was separating out the ones I thought you would like the most.”

John’s face crinkled a bit, as if he might begin to cry. “Oh,” he said. Then he stood. “I’ll make some tea. If you like?”

Sherlock nodded. Part of his mind was still mulling over John’s words. _I missed you._

He was so deep in thought that it was startling when John returned, setting two cups of tea carefully onto the table before sitting down again. “I’m glad you came home,” Sherlock said. It seemed polite to say something nice in response to John’s words. He didn’t intentionally sniff, but the faint scent of lavender perfume reached him anyway. “Someone sat very close to you,” he said. 

John gave a tiny smile. “And then I came home,” he said. “Shall we eat fairy cakes?”

Sherlock was not surprised when John chose the strawberry and cream cake first. For himself, he took the lemon zest. He did not intentionally smear some of the icing onto his face and Sherlock would deny that he had done for the next four decades or so.

John lifted a finger and wiped the icing away. Then he slowly licked his own finger and Sherlock decided that was the best thing. Well, almost the best thing. Because a moment later John had strawberry cream on his face and without even thinking about it Sherlock leaned forward and licked it off.

“Fairy cakes are brilliant,” John whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “The one with the bee is mine,” he added, wanting to make that point clear.

John just giggled.

*

Six months later, when Mummy was helping them plan the wedding, she did not understand why, instead of a traditional wedding cake, both John and Sherlock insisted that there would simply be a table full of fairy cakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Cakes and Ale by W. Somerset Maugham
> 
> P.S. While my collection of Penguin book cover postcards is now exhausted, I have a brand new box of titles from a different publisher. And I return to London in October. So...


End file.
